Tennyson couldn't help burying his face in his hands as he spoke, his voice muffled from between his fingers: "There's no one in this world worse than you and Charles."
Albert didn't hear clearly: "What did you say, Mr. Tennyson?"
"Nothing," Dickens chimed in: "Mr. Tennyson is probably recalling his unbearable past."
Albert's expression immediately turned solemn, the youthful ease and curiosity vanished.
He stood up straight, somewhat awkwardly: "Mr. Tennyson, I... I'm really very sorry. It seems I was too presumptuous. Please forgive me, I didn't mean to remind you of that past."
Tennyson looked complexly at the young prince, then sighed and waved lightly: "You needn't apologize. A poet's work is to continuously uncover his own unhealed wounds. You merely touched them lightly, while I... every day I sit in the editorial office, it's like I'm ripping them open again."
As soon as these words were spoken, the atmosphere in the room seemed to grow heavier.
